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I spent three months counting down to my two week break in Cyprus. Two days before I flew out, I somehow slipped on wet paving. My left leg was rendered uncontrollable after veering off to the side in such a way, I almost re-enacted a image from the ‘Position Of The Day Book’ (those who don’t have a copy, you’re missing out!). I’d torn all the ligaments in my left knee and ankle but, most importantly, I soon found out that even I can’t make a thigh-high tubi-grip bandage look good on the beach.

June 2007 – Has anyone seen my crutch?

Has anyone seen my crutch? No. That’s cuz I finally got to ditch the blasted things and stopped walking like I had a fork-lift truck parked between my legs. Instead, I’d got a meningitis style bug, complete with an ear and throat infection thrown in as a bonus. There’s nothing like a set of swollen glands around your chin to make you look like the Elephant Man…

July 2007 – ‘Back’ to normal… almost

Four doctors appointments, two lots of antibiotics, a course of super-strong painkillers and an emergency dash to Casualty later… I’m almost completely well! Hooray! My ear ache is finally subsiding although I’ve been refered to a specialist, my cough could be hayfever-induced asthma so it’ll pass eventually, my blood tests all came back negative (hell yeah, I aint ever had a disease and I don’t wanna start!), but (yes, there’s a ‘but’) I have a bad back. I coughed so violently I had a muscle spasm in my back which left me immobile for over a week (no, I’m not joking). Anyway, I’m finally on the mend (but need to see an osteopath). I am a [stiffly] walking calamity but I’m finally getting there.

And the moral of the story? Stay your ass home and don’t go on holiday. A Duty Free bargain aint the only thing you could bring back…

Yup, it’s my birthday and I’ve finally reached the big 3-0. Thirty. Wow. I still feel 18. It only seems like yesterday when I was trying to pass my driving test and when I was getting mad cuz clubs kept asking me for ID and supermarkets refused to sell me alcohol. My, my how things change…

In all honesty, I don’t care about hitting 30. I actually feel quite excited about the coming decade. Unlike my twenties, this decade offers far more certainties; my thirties will be when I finally settle down, have kids (god willing), fulfil at least one of my career aspirations and actually decide exactly what it is I want out of life. Although I’m in no hurry to achieve any of these things for a few years yet, it’s clear that as a female, I have a biological clock that will start to falter by 40 and I’ve got no desire to be a single mum so I’ll have to think about giving my heart away to someone. Thankfully, my career is already on the rise and I feel far more focused and determined than I’ve ever been.

What I don’t like about reaching 30 is how other people react and respond to me. How many (unfunny) ‘you’re getting old’ jokes can one girl endure? Not many, believe me. And to the Greek relatives who keep telling me that they know a lovely Greek guy they want me to meet – please! I’m not a racehorse. You can’t just breed me with good stock and hope for the best. Give a girl a chance! I can find my own man believe it or not.

But what’s the solution to all of this? Well, I think I’ve cracked it… forget Oil Of Olay, Botox, facelifts and tummy tucks – the secret to eternal youth is simple: as of tomorrow, I’m wearing only ‘hoodies’ and trying to get myself an ASBO. Then I’ll go around proudly telling people that I’m 30, watching smugly as their faces tense with shock and they utter the beautiful words “But I thought you were still in your teens…”.

On Wednesday 21st December 2006, I spotted something on my head, glinting in the light. I was in the middle of a press junket with a gorgeous American actor and all I could think about was the silver lightening bolt seemingly coming out of my head. On close inspection, it turned out to be my first grey hair. I tried to convince myself that it was blonde, but I could clearly see the difference.

Needless to say, I promptly yanked out the offending strand and put it in a little purple box. It’s saved for the day when I have a whole head of grey hair and need to turn to L’Oreal for help. I can use it to do a strand test and see which fake hair colour will work best. Funnily enough, I thought my L’Oreal years were a long way off but now I think I’m getting a second grey hair. This is terrible. TERRIBLE. What’s next? Growing a beard? Personally, I’d opt for electrolysis… but back to the original dilemma… what do I do about my grey hair?

I’m thinking I should grow a full bush of pubes before I go grey down there as well and have no option but to take it all off. But I can’t bring myself to go around looking like Epping Forest. Plus, I’m not sure I’ll ever find a bloke brave enough to face this undergrowth. The jungle life isn’t for everyone, after all. Maybe I can wax it into a neat ‘landing strip’ and, with the help of a bit of Velcro, stick on a brown muff wig (the correct term is ‘merkin’ in case you want to know). Failing that, I guess I could embrace my grey and try to change perceptions of the ageing female by flashing my bits proudly to anyone who wants a look-see. But life as a stripper called Silver Fox would have too many draw-backs… all women go grey eventually so the competition would be too fierce.

Maybe I’m thinking too deeply about grey affecting my minge? I ought to focus on my face. At least a grey ‘tash would be invisible. And even the beard won’t need electrolysis if it’s grey. Hey, maybe there’s an up-side to going grey after all… or am I just trying to convince myself? Either way, the fact remains – I’m getting old. Blimey. I guess I need to grow up now and act more mature. Or I need to find a much older man who’ll make me look like an 18 year old in comparison. Does anyone have a fit grand-dad? Just kidding! What I meant to say was does anyone have a rich and fit grand-dad? Then he can buy me some dark brown hair implants. Who says I need to go grey, eh? Hell no. Not me.

For the second day running, I’ve gone into my local Pret A Manger to buy a cup of English Breakfast tea, only to have the muppet behind the counter tell me that they’ve RUN OUT OF TEA.

What is the world coming to? I can’t even get a tea now? I NEED MY TEA. I can’t get through a day without it. I’m like a car with no petrol. How can I be expected to function without tea? The doughnut behind the counter offered me a herbal tea instead. I don’t want a horrid herbal tea. If I wanted fruit flavoured water I’d just buy a bottle of Ribena, innit?! There’s a blooming Tescos across the road – can’t they just go and buy a pack of tea bags? C’mon. This is a joke. It’s not like they have to go all the way to China to get it. All they have to do is cross the road!

Worse still, I had to go into EAT to buy a tea instead, where they basically place a tea-bag in a paper cup and top it up with hot water. Then the lazy staff tell you that you have to pour in the milk yourself, stir it and place the lid on top… you end up making your own tea! This totally defeats the purpose of going to a coffee shop to pay for some lackey to do it. And the cheeky gits still charge you full price.

By this point, I hadn’t had a tea since I left my home this morning. My nerves were frayed. I felt irritable and grumpy. So what happened when I tried to order my tea in EAT? It took me a full five minutes to get the non-English speaking woman behind the counter to understand that I wanted a cup of English Breakfast tea. She kept saying ‘We no serve brekfass afterrr 10 o clok.” by this point, I’m practically spitting “I don’t want breakfast, I just want a cup of English Breakfast tea!” She’s still not getting it: “We no have English Breakfast, come bak mornin.” There was only one thing for it. I started shouting: “I WANT TEA. TEA. I’M TALKING ABOUT TEA. NOT FOOD. I JUST WANT A CUP OF TEA TO TAKE-AWAY. TEA!” I was about two seconds away from stamping my foot, bursting into tears, curling my fists and rolling around the floor like a little kid having a hissy fit. Just in the nick of time, she said: “Oh, OK. I undystan, you wan cup tea. OK. One cup tea.” And I finally got my tea.

It’s just a shame that after all that effort, I was thinking forget the tea, what I really need now is a shot of brandy…

I was sitting on an excruciatingly crammed tube (on the Victoria line to be precise) when it pulled into Euston Station. A crowd of passengers exited my carriage, leaving those of us remaining feeling thankful and relieved.

As the tube doors closed and we headed towards Warren Street, a cool breeze stroked my face and I gratefully gasped for air. And then it hit me… faint at first, but growing stronger and more pungent by the second. Someone had let one rip and it stank like they hadn’t washed their crack out since birth. It would’ve been kinder for someone to chuck the carcass of a dead animal onto the carriage. At least the fetid stench of decaying flesh is slightly sweet.

Instead, I could feel the remains of the toast I’d consumed not even one hour before suddenly rising up the back of my throat. People all around me started to squirm uncomfortably in their seats, trying to look like they hadn’t noticed that we’d suddenly been plunged into the depths of a motorway service’s blocked toilet bowl.

A couple of young girls giggled nervously and covered their noses with their hands. One man turned a painful shade of blue as he tried to hold his breath to avoid the noxious gas. Oh my gosh, I couldn’t breathe. There was no fresh air and no escape and we were all going to die. What the hell had the culprit had for breakfast? A cabbage smoothie? Raw sewage? Ten boiled eggs? Whatever the cause, I started heaving.

Praying silently for God to give me the strength to survive (and not puke), I did what any half-dying girl would do in a situation like this – I ignored the rules of etiquette and produced my perfume bottle from the depths of my handbag. Forget trying to look like I hadn’t noticed… I frantically sprayed my white scarf in the vanilla scent and wound it around my head until my face was wrapped so tight, I couldn’t even move my jaw. Then I sprayed the entire carriage. People looked at me with a mixture of compassion and gratitude, and some people even laughed. A few of the more macho-looking blokes looked slightly vexed about having to go into work smelling like a girl. Give a toss! It was a do or die situation and I did what I had to do.

But to the stinker that gassed us, I have to say this: I hope the next time you get lucky, and you find some gorgeous girl to sit on your face, I hope she hasn’t washed for three weeks, suddenly develops diarrhoea, and you pass out when you realise that the hot sauce on your face isn’t chocolate fudge…

Last week, my mate’s mum told me that I was too fussy and that I’d never meet a suitable bloke unless I changed my criteria.

I’ve thought about this and, I ask you, is it really too much to want to meet someone that I have chemistry with in the first 5 seconds? Is it really my fault that I like the quick-witted, sarky ones? I mean, I meet guys all the time, but I don’t fancy them… there’s always something wrong.

Take the super good-looking guy that asked me out a hip hop club night… he was wearing a clown suit. Seriously. I could just about see his face under the outrageous wig, and don’t even get me started on the loud shirt, over-sized shoes and braces holding up his trousers. Call me prejudiced, but I really don’t like clowns.

Then there was the cute man I met on holiday – his chat up line was “I like to lick it before I stick it” which he followed with a child-like giggle and a cocked eyebrow. Hell, no. That was just too friendly. Then there was the tall, dark and handsome bloke I met at a bar – he told me that he makes every woman reach orgasm because he likes to stick his finger up their bum during love-making. I didn’t even finish my drink before I ran for the nearest exit.

Then there was the ‘wonderful’ religious geezer who told me that if he wasn’t marrying his fiance he’d marry me instead but I shouldn’t let that stand in the way of us getting it together. I told him to naff off and headed to the nearest chipie to buy a pork kebab.

Your man says that you’re getting fat. What do you say? I say, “Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to weigh myself. I’m just waiting for the right man’s face to sit on.” Offensive? So I’ve been told…

Your man takes you out to dinner (great, he’s over the whole weight gain worry) but he orders a vegetarian salad for you (strike the previous thought). Do you politely eat the salad and feel tearful cuz it doesn’t even have any croutons? I say: “Honey, no-one gained energy by eating a few lettuce leaves decorated with a tomato. How do you expect me to go home with you, strip seductively to my undies, suck you off like a hydraulic doll, bend my body like a contortionist and then bounce on your lap like an Olympic Athlete?” Fact: men getting women to eat salad only provides sufficient energy for a man to have to use his own hand when he takes his missus home from the restaurant.

Your man buys you a surprise gift… Diet pills. And they were expensive. Do you seethe silently cuz he didn’t spend the money on shoes or jewellery instead? No. You graciously accept and then grind several laxatives into his daily breakfast. If you give shit, you should get shit.